


Your Love Will Be Safe With Me

by CloudAtlas



Series: A Safety In The End [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aromanticism, Developing Friendships, Friendship, Introspection, Multi, Open Relationships, Polyamory, background Clint Barton/Original Character(s), background Natasha Romanov/Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 04:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18804010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: Making friends and influencing people, Clint Barton style.Well, sort of.





	Your Love Will Be Safe With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Re: Stacks by Bon Iver](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HLyxaI4T7rg). Huge thanks to **gsparkle** for pointing out very early on that I didn't have to have the story be one continuous narrative and singlehandedly fixed basically every problem I was having with this story at the time. Beta'd by **inkvoices** , who gets additional thanks for fixing all the bits gsparkle didn't fix. :P

“So I ended up moving in with Cherry, into this shithole Queen Anne off 19th and Noe.”

Clint makes a jerky gesture with his hand, narrowly avoiding spilling coffee on himself while Natasha busies herself cutting more cake. She’s heard this story already, but James, Steve, and Peggy haven’t, and Clint will take literally any opportunity to tell it because he can still see that kitchen in his mind’s eye, can still feel the gut punch joy of seeing who was sat in it. Everyone deserves to revel in the glory of that moment.

Plus it’s a great icebreaker story, for all that they’re three hours into this dinner party and well past the need for icebreakers.

“Apart from,” he continues, “she’d failed to mention that I was moving in with Kiki from the club – who I kinda hated, and that takes work on my part, let me tell you – and a woman called Marlene, who I’d slept with when I first arrived in Frisco. So that was, you know, awkward.” Clint shrugs. “But then Marlene left to go to… Cheyenne? Tahoma? Somewhere really fucking unexpected, anyway, and Kiki got a sugar daddy and fucked off to greener pastures, or whatever. So they were replaced by Phoebe and her girlfriend Cara, and Robyn Banks, who became a big deal on the San Fran drag scene and _that_ ,” Clint says with a flourish, pointing dramatically at Peggy while Steve just looks equal parts amused and bemused, “is how I came home one day to find RuPaul sat in my kitchen looking resplendent in a fuchsia suit.”

“Oh my God,” Peggy says, her smile enormous. “Was he stunning? Did he glow?”

“Like his own fucking light source. Cherry was almost crying with delight. Couldn’t have asked for a better birthday present for her, to be honest.”

“How long had you and Cherry been dating by then?” Steve asks.

“Oh no, we weren’t dating,” Clint says with a laugh. He’s fairly sure he’d actually been coming home from a one night stand that day actually, though he can’t really remember. They’d slept together, but mostly she was just an awesome roommate. “She just knew I needed a place to stay. Plus, I’m aro, so you know.”

Steve, very clearly, doesn’t ‘know’.

“Arrow?”

“Aromantic,” Clint supplies. “You know, someone who doesn’t get romantic feelings, like crushes and shit.”

A small frown creases Steve’s forehead. “Like, falling in love?”

“Yeah, like any of the squishy feelings.” He waves his hand. “No stars in your eyes, butterflies in your stomach, that sort of thing.” Clint has to resist looking over at Natasha when he says this because he’s still not _entirely_ comfortable with the knowledge that Natasha's different. Not because he doesn’t want her to be or – or anything like that. More just because he’s still not really comfortable with the – comparatively sudden – dramatic shift in what he thought was something he no longer had to think about.

Natasha, the absolute fucking queen, knows this and has never, ever pushed. Clint doesn’t deserve her.

“Oh.”

Steve’s frowning now, his gaze flicking between Clint and James like he’s trying to work something out, and Clint gets the sinking feeling that this is going to be a problem for Steve. Which, okay, Clint can totally deal with, but he hopes that Steve doesn’t make things difficult for James as a result.

He’s just about to say something else – though what that might be, he’s not yet worked out – when Peggy says, “Huh,” thoughtfully. Then, “Is that common?”

“What?”

“Being aromantic.”

Clint stares at her, bewildered. He has absolutely no fucking clue, why would he?

“Pegs,” James says, sounding amused, “we’re at dinner, not a seminar.”

A light blush dusts her cheeks and Clint is charmed by her all over again. “Sorry, sorry. Continue your story.”

“Well, that was basically it, really. We chatted a little and then I crashed out, and when I woke up RuPaul had left.”

“Disappointing.” James sniffs, but he’s grinning.

“Well, you’re welcome to tell a better story.”

“Ooh no,” Natasha cuts in almost immediately. “I gotta show you something.”

She pulls him off the couch and drags him over to a wall of framed photos where she positions him in front of a photo of Steve and Peggy on their wedding day. Clint stares at it, nonplussed.

“What am I looking at here? Because if it’s the wedding photo, I’ve already told both Steve and Peggy that I’d totally sleep with them both if they were willing and available.”

James laughs. “Willing and available? Isn’t it willing and able?”

Clint turns to look at him. “You doubting your friends’ sexual prowess, Barnes? ‘Cause I sure ain’t.”

Both James and Natasha snort out laughs and Peggy Carter fucking cackles – as if Clint wasn’t already smitten – but Steve just frowns, looking preoccupied. Clint tilts his head in question and Steve drops his gaze immediately. O _kay_ , still being weird about the aro thing. Clint mentally shrugs.

“No, Hufflepuff.” Natasha sounds fondly exasperated. “Peggy kindly showed it to me.”

She deliberately trails her fingertips over the photo frames, stopping with a meaningful look on a picture of Peggy on a beach in a bikini and sending Clint a look that says, sky-writing loud, _I want her to fuck me so hard I black out, help._ It’s an almost imperceptible pause but Clint catches it, throwing her a wide-eyed look of understanding in return. The silent language of the sexually frustrated. Then she moves on, tapping her nail against a picture of James, probably acting as Steve’s best man at his wedding and wearing –

“Jesus Christ.” In the photo James’ hair is trimmed military short and he’s wearing Army dress blues and a smirk, like he knows exactly the effect that outfit is having on Clint now, some six years later. “Fuck me.” Clint turns wide eyes on James. “Please, for the love of God, tell me you still have that outfit.”

Peggy starts laughing again immediately, but James looks momentarily confused before realisation strikes and he blushes a fierce red, burying his face in his hands.

“I hate you,” he says, his voice muffled by his fingers and Clint throws out a simple, “No you don’t,” in return.

“And _then_ ,” Natasha continues, looking gleeful and directing Clint back to the photos on the wall. She taps a different photo.

It’s a photo of Steve and James this time, and it must have been taken after James came back from Afghanistan because the first thing Clint notices is that James looks more haunted here, like something’s been stripped away. The second thing he notices is that James has almost chin length hair and it’s fucking _hot_.

And Clint can’t help it; he starts laughing, loud and delighted.

“What?” James’ indignant voice cuts through his laughter, but all it does is make Clint laugh harder and move towards James until he can _touch_. Until he can lean over the back of the couch and wrap his arms around James’ head in a deliberately awkward and uncomfortable hug.

“Get off me, you maniac,” James says, muffled by Clint’s arms, but Clint just holds on tighter and grins over at Natasha, who’s looking impossibly fond.

“Nope,” he says obnoxiously, while maintaining eye contact with Natasha. “Not doing. Can’t believe you rocked hobo rock star sex hair.”

“Groupie’s wet dream,” Natasha adds with a grin.

Peggy barks out a laugh at that – and Clint is slightly embarrassed to realise that he’d completely forgotten both she and Steve were there for a second – before understanding dawns. “Wait. You _like_ that?”

“Uh, _yeah_.” Clint finally unwraps his arms from around James’ head at Natasha's insistence. He settles instead for perching on the arm of the couch to James’ left, grunting quietly as James elbows him hard in the thigh.

“ _Really?_ ”

“Pegs made him cut it.”

Steve’s voice is quiet and he still doesn’t look comfortable, but he’s making an effort so Clint decides to cut him some slack.

“How very dare you,” Natasha replies, the lack of inflection to her voice causing Peggy to grin, before saying something in Russian that makes James turn red so fast Clint’s honestly impressed.

“Jesus Christ, Nat, what the fuck,” James hisses, and Natasha's laugh rings out, joyous. Before Clint can even asked what she’d said, she signs _great for face-fucking_ and Clint has to laugh too, blithely ignoring Steve and Peggy’s questioning looks.

“Well, she’s not wrong,” Clint says, patting James on the head, scratching his nails across his scalp too quickly to be really noticed by anyone other than James himself. He then ups and sits down properly on James’ other side, looking over at Peggy. “How could you make him cut it though?”

“I wasn’t having him look homeless while he was staying in my house,” she replies, clearly deciding to just ignore the previous exchange and smoothing her hands over the material of her skirt in a pantomime of primness. “I won’t have my hospitality questioned.”

“People wouldn’t be questioning your _hospitality_ ,” Clint replies with a laugh. “They’d be thinking your sex life just got a hundred percent more enviable.” He leers at her. “Double the dicking.”

“ _Clint!_ ”

The word ‘aghast’ is the best one to describe James’ expression and Peggy’s face seems in danger of splitting in two, she’s grinning so hard; a kind of infectious, incredulous joy. Clint’s having the time of his fucking _life_.

Steve, on the other hand, looks as though he doesn’t know what to think or how to react or even what is going on any more.

“Or that you have an extra bit of rough on the side,” Natasha says, equally relentless in their joint pursuit of embarrassing the fuck out of James.

“Holy fucking shit,” James says, wrapping both arms around Clint and Natasha’s heads so he can cover their mouths with his hands, his face bright red. “Will you two shut the fuck up, you _maniacs_.”

“Not even on the side,” Peggy chimes in, and James looks _betrayed_. Clint’s laugh is smothered by James’ hand, which is probably a good thing because it’d definitely be unacceptably loud at this point.

“Please don’t encourage them Pegs. They’re the worst. You can’t one-up them, they always win.” James fixes his gaze on Peggy. “They _always win_ , Peggy.”

And to Clint’s complete surprise, Peggy’s eyes fill with tears and she claps her hands in front of her mouth like she has to physically stop herself from saying something.

“What?” James asks, bewildered, his grip against Clint and Natasha’s faces slackening. Clint pulls James’ hand away from his face, suddenly worried they’ve fucked up somehow, and he sees Natasha do the same.

“I’m just happy for you, James.” Peggy’s voice is low and muffled by her hands, but they’re still audible even to Clint. She drops her hands into her lap and repeats herself. “So _fucking_ happy.”

Clint feels James’ arms slide slowly down and off his shoulders, as if he’s suddenly unsure what they should be doing right now. Clint risks a glance at him out of the corner of his eye and sees confusion and amusement at war on his face; his expression caught in between by the sudden change in the direction of conversation. There’s a beat of pin-drop silence, in which Peggy seems to be fighting embarrassment and Clint can feel a strange relief in the curve of James’ spine, before James abruptly relaxes.

“Thanks Peg,” he says, quietly and Clint’s sure he’s missed something important. He shoots a quick glance at Natasha, which reveals her to be only marginally less bemused. But she’s smart; she’ll probably work it out before him. An even quicker glance at Steve reveals him to be equally wrong-footed and unsure – worry and incomprehension writ large across his features as his gaze flits between his wife and his best friend.

“You look after him,” Peggy says suddenly, turning her gaze first on Natasha, then on him. “You hear me? You look after him.”

They both nod, thrown, and Peggy’s answering smile makes Clint think that, somewhere between lusting over James in Army blues and embarrassing him through hypothetical stories of Peggy’s infidelity, both Clint and Natasha have passed some sort of test. Clint’s not sure of the metric, or what tipped them over, but they’ve been approved.

At least, Clint thinks, giving Steve another quick glance, by Peggy.

 

Clint gets a text from his brother about three weeks after telling his mom about James, which is about as long as he’d thought he’d have to wait for Barney.

 **The Dinosaur [11:28]**  
Mom says you’ve got a boyfriend now as well.

 **Clint [11:46]**  
Yeah

He doesn’t get an immediate reply. Clint’d worry, but he knows Barney. He knows they’re probably alright.

He and Barney are very different people, on basically every level. Barney has a steady job, three kids, and a mortgage. He got married at twenty-two – going to his wedding was one of the last things Clint did in Iowa before moving to San Francisco – and his wife, Laura, is amazing. An elementary school teacher, she and Barney met when she came to Waverley to clear out her Great Aunt’s house after she died. She takes none of Barney’s bullshit, something Barney sorely needs, and Clint genuinely loves her. In fact, he’s fairly sure he can attribute the massive improvement in Clint and Barney’s relationship to her immensely positive influence. Well, her and his stepdad Frank.

It’s a wonderful thing to discover, that you actually do love your family.

In contrast, Clint spent his late teens and the majority of his twenties living in shitty bedsits with half the queer population of San Francisco, paying his way with casual work in bars and clubs. He probably had more sex before he was twenty than Barney’s ever had in his life and he’s made out with every type of person imaginable including, to his immense embarrassment, a very weird guy in his seventies who probably wanted Clint to be his live-in toyboy. Whatever, he was twenty-one and dumb. Even now, when he’s more ‘responsible’, he ‘owns’ a building in New York essentially bought for him by his best friend, has a boyfriend _and_ a girlfriend, and still picks people up for casual sex when he feels like it.

So yeah, they’re very different. But they’re okay.

Barney’s reply comes twenty-four hours later and Clint is fairly sure that in the interim Barney got tipsy and had a very muddled conversation with Laura about his feelings. Probably while trying to put baby Nate to bed, because Bartons are nothing if not excellent at picking their moments.

 **The Dinosaur [17:53]**  
You’re so weird.

Clint rolls his eyes, even though Barney can’t see him.

 **Clint [17:55]**  
Love you too, bro

 **The Dinosaur [18:03]**  
*middle finger emoji*

 

“Clint?”

Clint turns, coffee in hand, to find none other than Peggy Carter, just about the last person he expected to find in this tiny coffee shop on the edge of Tompkins Square Park.

“Oh hey!” He gives her a hug in greeting despite meeting her for the first time only a week ago, because Clint will always be that person. “What are you doing here?”

“Me?” Peggy laughs. “I work at NYU, remember? What are _you_ doing here?”

Clint shrugs. “Went for a walk.”

Thing is, Clint loves living in cities and he is, in many ways, a city person. But in other ways he’s a country guy at heart and, while he loves New York, the fact that he can’t just walk out into a field where he can hear nothing but the wind and birds still really bothers him. So to counteract this, Clint takes long rambling walks on his days off. He probably knows Brooklyn better than any taxi driver and he knows downtown Manhattan almost as well.

Plus, he lives and works out of the same building. If he didn’t do this, the furthest he’d walk in a week would be to the grocery shop on the corner, and that idea gives him fucking hives.

Peggy laughs, looking mildly bemused. “Okay then. You want to sit? I’ve got – ” she looks at her watch “ – probably about fifteen minutes before I have to head out again.”

“Yeah, sure.”

They make polite small talk as Peggy orders her drinks before snagging a corner table and settling in, Clint asking about her teaching and Peggy gently interrogating him as to exactly why he decided to walk from Bed-Stuy to the East Village on his day off. It’s comfortable, and Clint can’t help but admire everything Peggy Carter chooses to be all over again. Foreigners aren’t strange in New York, completely the opposite in fact, by Peggy somehow uses her Britishness as a marker – you’re never not aware of it. And it’s not just her beautiful cut-glass accent. It’s the way she gently bullies the kid behind the counter into making her a cup of tea using teabags she’s brought with her, the way she sits perfectly straight in her chair, the way she drops words like ‘wanker’ and ‘pavement’ and ‘holiday’ into her conversation. Maybe that’s not typical British behaviour – Clint wouldn’t know – but it makes you _notice_ her.

Plus, her red lipstick is _killer_. Clint’s honestly smitten.

“Seeing as you’re here,” Peggy says eventually, and Clint gets the impression she’s just been waiting for the opportunity to bring this up, “I feel I should apologise.”

Clint pulls a questioning face.

“For Steve,” Peggy clarifies. “I think…” She trails off, like she’s thinking carefully about what she’s about to say. “Steve and James are very… protective of each other. They don’t want the other to worry, or get hurt. James’… _revelation_ to Steve has I think led to Steve…”

She pauses again and then apparently changes tack.

“Your admission at dinner the other day made Steve worry that James will once again end up falling for someone who won’t or can’t love him back. And I think that worries Steve, because he knows he’s inadvertently hurt James that way in the past and he doesn’t want James to go through it again.”

Clint stares at her blankly for a brief moment.

“So I want to apologise,” Peggy repeats, “for him being sort of… weird about it.”

“I… hadn’t thought of that,” he admits eventually. Because he hadn’t. Steve’s reaction at dinner read, to Clint, as someone that was weirded out by something new. And that made sense to Clint, but also didn’t bother him because Clint doesn’t _need_ Steve to accept him. He’d _like_ it, sure, because it would make James and Steve’s lives easier in relation to each other and also because Steve seems like a really cool guy, but he doesn’t _need_ it. So, Steve will come to terms with it in his own time or he won’t, but, as long as he doesn’t make a _thing_ of it, his decision will have little to no bearing on Clint’s life at all.

But what Peggy’s saying makes a huge amount of sense and, as a result, suddenly makes it Clint’s problem. Sort of. Maybe.

“I’m not saying this to…” Peggy waves her hand vaguely. “Please don’t worry about it. It’s Steve’s problem and he’s a good guy. He just needs an adjustment period.” She smiles then before continuing, “And probably some reassurances from James delivered in the form of childish bickering.”

The look Clint shoots her way is mildly incredulous. “You _are_ aware that saying ‘don’t worry about it’ is the best way to make someone worry about something, right?”

Peggy pulls a face and says, “Sorry,” but Clint’s already waving her apology away.

“It’s fine.” Clint frowns. “Though I’m not sure what it says about me, that I didn’t think of that.”

“Only that you don’t know Steve very well, which is understandable,” Peggy reassures him, taking a sip of her tea before shooting a small smile his way. “And now you’re learning the most important thing.”

Her smile widens at Clint’s confusion.

“James Buchanan Barnes comes first,” she explains.

That’s… unexpected.

“Even before you?”

Peggy pulls a face. “No, there are different metrics. But they’re a package deal, which anyone getting into a relationship with either of them comes to learn very quickly. In fact, I’m actually impressed that James managed to keep Steve in the dark about you and Natasha for as long as he did. I mean, I understand _why_ , but I’m still impressed.”

It sounds a little like James and Steve are like him and Kate, so yeah, that is kinda impressive. Kate knew about James immediately, after all.

“Anyway, please don’t worry about it. He’s not actually an idiot and he’s happy that James is happy. He just needs an adjustment period.” Peggy grins at him again. “I’ve given him a week.”

Clint has to laugh at that. “And once the week is up?”

“I get to lecture him about why he’s being an idiot and a bad friend.”

Peggy Carter is a mildly terrifying woman. Clint’s totally into it. He grins and Peggy smiles back before glancing at her watch.

“Bollocks, I’m going to be late if I don’t leave now.” Suddenly she’s a whirlwind of movement, collecting her phone and notebook and take-out cup and bussing Clint on the cheek before calling out, “Nice to see you, Clint, we should all meet up again soon, okay?” and bustling out of the café.

Clint’s left alone at the table watching her retreating back as she walks down the street, flashing the red soles of her shoes.

Hell of a woman, that Peggy Carter.

 

It’s twenty-six minutes past three in the morning and Clint can’t sleep.

It’s not that he’s not tired – he is – and it’s not that he has insomnia really – he doesn’t, never has really, and he knows he’s lucky. It’s just…

Well, he’s been thinking. About James, and about Steve, and about himself, and about what Peggy said.

Mostly about what Peggy said.

He stares at the strange shapes the streetlights make on his ceiling through his blinds. Beside him Natasha shifts and turns into James’ shoulder.

They trap her in the middle now, so she can’t always steal the covers. Not that that’s an issue, currently; it’s late July and New York is sweltering, all the day’s heat trapped in glass and chrome and concrete to be radiated out during the night. The single sheet they’d pulled over themselves when they’d gone to bed is tangled around Natasha's feet, both Clint and James having kicked it off entirely in the night to lay either side of her, sweating through their boxers. Or Ivy Park shorts, if you’re James. Which: what the hell? Clint knows he doesn’t own Ivy Park clothing, and Kate would kill him before he could steal anything Beyoncé-related from her, which means that these are either Natasha's ( _highly_ unlikely) or that James _owns Ivy Park activewear_. Incredible.

They’re pretty short too. Clint can’t believe he hadn’t noticed them until now.

Clint’s eyes trail over James as he lies sprawled on his back, Natasha now curled into his side.

Clint can remember, very clearly, what James was like the first time they met. Hot as fuck, obviously – and confident and beautifully dressed and eager to please – but in between all that, there were these little moments of… incredulity, and of tentativeness, and disbelief. And when Natasha had signed _there’s a friend, I think_ that had made sense. Clint’s been around the block – several times, let’s be honest – so he knows what it looks like when a person is using someone to forget someone else. But with James those looks were, by and large, fleeting. Most of _his_ insecurity regarding what they were doing seemed to stem from either the fact that there were three of them or how casual both Clint and Natasha were about the whole thing. So it had seemed to Clint that whoever this friend was… He’s not sure. Was less important to James that Steve actually is? And that’s not to say Clint thought this friend was _un_ important, just… It’s like the difference between Kate and Luke. Luke’s awesome, for sure, but if it was a toss-up between Kate and Luke, Kate would win, hands down.

Like that. Clint thought Steve was Luke when in fact Steve is Kate.

And then even the revelation of how important Steve is to James didn’t actually impact Clint all that much. So James has a Kate! Great. James is in love with his Kate? Well… okay. Clint doesn’t get it exactly, but fine. That’s a thing. James is an adult. If he can deal with that and also be in a relationship with Clint and Natasha, more power to him. Clint isn’t bothered by it. He wasn’t even bothered by it when he met Steve, or realised how hot Steve is, or how nice he is. The day Clint feels threatened by someone like that will be the day hell freezes over. Clint just _doesn’t care_ about that.

But Clint also doesn’t, historically, plan long term – at least, not in terms of interpersonal relationships. (Clint’s a responsible business owner, okay?) But if you’re in a relationship you kind of have to, right? So he has to consider these kinds of things, like what it would be like to be a romantic guy in a relationship with an aromantic guy, after being in love with your best friend, who doesn’t love you back, since forever.

And that… that tangles Clint up. Because that doesn’t sound like fun. Or good. Or healthy.

And what’s worse is he didn’t even think about it until Peggy pointed it out, because it just… didn’t occur to him. Which makes him feel a little like an asshole.

So in Clint’s head, at twenty-six minutes past three in the morning, what happens is that James gets progressively more unhappy and then he leaves.

Clint sighs and eels his way out of bed, padding downstairs and dropping heavily onto the couch.

He knows it’s not that bad. He knows he’s being unreasonable and worrying more than necessary, if not completely _un_ necessarily. James had said at least once that he’s not worried about how Clint’s… _Clintness_ would affect their relationship and James is, as Clint is always reminding himself, an adult. If James says he can handle it, that it’s okay, then it’s not Clint’s place to doubt him. And if James _is_ lying, well, then it’s his own fucking fault if it blows up in his face.

Clint’s worked too hard for too long on his communications skills to have patience with people who don’t bother.

And it’s not like he thinks James is lying. It’s just…

It’s twenty-six minutes past three in the morning and Clint needed something important pointed out to him by someone he’s only met twice now and that’s eating at him.

Actually it’s three forty-seven in the morning, the TV says so, and that’s way too close to four a.m. for Clint. Urgh.

Clint cradles his head in his hands, staring unseeingly at the floor between his bare feet.

What it boils down to (probably) is that Clint doesn’t like not being nice to people. Sure, he can fuck up and get it wrong, but by and large he likes helping people out and making sure they’re happy and healthy and okay. And he’s low-key worried that he’s going to miss some important in-a-romantic-(sort-of)-relationship cue here and just… hurt James. Who has been in love with his best friend since forever, who’s been blown up in Afghanistan and seen a friend die and, just, he’s had to live through a whole heap of horrible things. Clint doesn’t want to become one of them.

Clint can almost _hear_ James’ pissed off, “That’s a dumb fucking question,” from the last time Clint brought up something like this. And it _is_ , which is also why Clint’s a little pissed off with himself to be honest. James has already addressed these fears – there’s no good fucking reason why Clint’s brain is dragging all this shit up again.

Apart from that he’d needed Peggy to point out the possibility to him.

God, his thoughts are just circling now. He’s too tired and everything he’s thinking now is dumb. Fuck fuck fuck.

For obvious reasons, he’s not wearing his hearing aids, so it’s only when Natasha gently kicks his ankle that he’s made aware of the fact that she’s followed him down the stairs.

 _Can’t sleep?_ she signs.

Natasha looks soft and warm and concerned. Clint shrugs.

_Worrying?_

Clint shrugs again and avoids her eyes.

She kicks his ankle again. _What’s up?_

Clint sighs and leans back against the couch cushions. _Nothing you need to worry about_ , he signs back eventually.

Natasha frowns. _Just because it’s not my problem doesn’t mean I don’t want to help_.

Clint drags his palms over his face in response, because he has absolutely no comeback for that, and when he looks over at her again Natasha’s turned away, looking towards the stairs and the phenomenally grumpy James Barnes that’s stalking down them.

Something twists in his gut, but then he notices the shorts again. Seriously, those Ivy Park shorts are a gift to mankind. His _thighs_.

James says something, but Clint can’t tell what because he’s mumble-slurring and lip reading is hard at the best of times. Clint sees Natasha respond, but he misses that too and clearly whatever she says is unsatisfactory because James stalks over. He says something again, this time to Clint – which Natasha helpfully translates as, _Stop worrying, dumbass_ – and insistently pulls at Clint’s hand until he gets off the couch. James then takes both Clint and Natasha by the hand and leads them back up the stairs.

More gently than his grumpy expression implies, he coaxes Clint to lie down in the middle before proceeding to wrap himself around Clint like a fucking octopus. Natasha gets in on his other side, a gentle, fond smile curling her lips. It’s too hot to sleep like this really, but it’s nice. James smells good, and his hair tickles against the back of Clint’s neck, and Natasha is smiling at him fondly, her sleep shirt caught up around her waist. Clint reaches for her because he can, and because there’s a comfort in touch that Clint always, always craves.

James says something, the words rumbling through his chest and Clint’s back.

 _Relax and stop worrying about me_ , Natasha translates, and Clint frowns at her.

 _It was pretty clear what you were worrying about, Hufflepuff_ , she continues with a roll of her eyes, fingerspelling ‘Hufflepuff’. _I know you, you see_.

Clint raises his eyebrows in an attempt to look sceptical. He’s mostly buried in pillows though, so he’s not sure how effective he’s being.

_He said you frowned at him before you noticed the shorts._

Okay, that makes more sense. Clint pulls a face he hopes conveys _fair enough._ His hands are trapped now anyway, he can’t sign.

Natasha grins and shuffles forward to kiss him on the nose.

 _Love you_ , she signs.

 

There’s a woman at the bar – South Asian looking, half her head shaved, and wearing a knee-length, flowery dress – who’s being really unsubtle about checking out Natasha. She’s cute, she’s curvy, and she’s slightly reminiscent of Peggy Carter, which Clint knows is what Natasha's looking for tonight.

Hell of a woman, that Peggy Carter.

 _You’ve got an admirer,_ Clint signs to Natasha, nodding over to the bar. He’s here basically as a wingman anyway. Better earn his keep.

Natasha looks over towards the bar, giving the woman an appreciative once over, and even in the low light of the club Clint can see the woman blush.

Natasha grins at him and gives him an approving nod. _Don’t stay up_ , she signs, giving him a quick, hard kiss on the mouth. She then stands and makes her way over to the bar, where the woman looks caught between confused – probably thanks to Natasha kissing him – and alarmed at Natasha's approach.

This whole evening had been Natasha’s idea. She’s been talking for a little while now about how she misses sleeping with women – or as she’d put it, “My life’s a sausagefest now and that’s sad,” – and it’s pretty clear that meeting Peggy last Saturday was the final straw. Which, of course, means a trip to Valhalla, because where else would be as good?

Normally, Clint wouldn’t have agreed to come along. He’s working tomorrow and, much as he loves Valhalla, loud music fucks with his ears. But on the other hand, by the end of his shift Clint had craved the kind of solitude you only really get as a single person in a crowded club – the kind that means you’re on your own but not lonely and you don’t have to _think_.

Clint really wants to not think and tiring himself out at a club had seemed like a good way to achieve that.

He finishes his beer and glances over to the bar again. Natasha and the woman are chatting now, lips too close to ears and casual touches galore. Natasha comes up to the woman’s chin but is very clearly in charge, as always, and the woman looks pole-axed but very, very happy. They’re good, which means it’s Clint’s turn.

He lets his gaze trail over the other club goers. He recognises a couple of people, but mostly it’s just the peacock colourfulness of people enjoying their night out. Clint gaze snags on a woman dressed head to toe in black, her gold make-up a stark contrast to her dark skin. She looks like a _goddess_ and Clint can’t help but stare, caught on the turn of her hands and the sway of her hips. He watches for longer than he probably should and he’s only brought out of it by someone crashing into his side and practically falling into his lap.

Clint recognised them immediately. Their name is Kai and he bumps into them nine times out of ten whenever he’s in Valhalla. Their entire interaction usually comprises of Kai grinning disarmingly at him and tapping their mouth, demanding a kiss. Clint _always_ obliges and they _always_ look thrilled, as if getting to kiss Clint is some great achievement rather than something half of Valhalla can probably boast of. Clint finds it hilarious, which is half the reason he keeps letting it happen.

Plus it’s basically their thing now, like Clint’s yearly birthday kiss from Thor.

As expected, as soon as Kai realises who they’ve fallen into they grin and tap their mouth, looking coy. Clint rolls his eyes in return, but smiles and pulls them in for a kiss, sliding his hand into their messy, green-tipped hair. They’ve got a tongue piercing now, which Clint is embarrassingly into. Kai grins at Clint’s probably very dazed look when they finally part, supremely pleased with themselves, before sashaying away on terrifyingly high heels.

God, Clint loves Valhalla.

Deciding that he’s been a wallflower for long enough tonight Clint gets up to dance, following Kai into the crowd and giving himself over to the push-pull of being surrounded by other people, the bass a tidal-boom in his chest without his hearing aids. He ends up making out with the lady in the gold make-up – who he thinks calls herself Remi, though with the low lighting and lip-reading being difficult at the best of times he’s not a hundred percent sure – as well as a cute blonde lady with wandering hands and an attractive but ultimately forgettable guy in a flamingo print shirt, whose cologne is strong enough to force Clint to head out for some fresh air afterwards. He makes sure to stand upwind of the smokers so he’s breathing in _actual_ fresh air and not airborne lung cancer, and leans against the wall, the bass of the music from inside a dull thud in his chest.

For about five minutes, Clint just breathes, revelling in the stillness and cool air. Then, just to be a shit, he sends Kate a photo of Valhalla’s neon sign.

 **Katie-Kate [00:21]**  
And you didn’t invite ME? T_T

 **Clint [00:21]**  
Don’t love you enough

 **Katie-Kate [00:21]**  
Bitch.

Kate was at late-night rehearsals tonight anyway. It’s not like she even _could_ have come.

Clint grins nonetheless and stays outside for a while longer before contemplating going back inside. Maybe he could pick someone up, take them back to his place, but he’s not really in the mood for that anymore. He spins his phone in this hand a couple of times, staring up at the fire escape across the road as he thinks. He feels lighter now, somehow, more settled in his skin. This was a good idea.

He fishes his hearing aids out of his pocket and rings James.

“Hey,” he says as soon as James picks up the call. “You’re not worried you’re going to end up falling in love with someone who doesn’t love you back again, are you?”

There’s a long silence.

“I’m sorry,” James says eventually. “Did you go to a club for the express purpose of having an existential crisis?”

James had been invited along but he’d had an exhausting week at work and hadn’t wanted to come – though he has a feeling James also isn’t yet ready to watch either Natasha or himself pick up other people basically in front of him – so Clint’s not sure why he’s picked up the phone at all. He’s probably marathoning _the West Wing_ again. Nerd.

“No?”

Okay, maybe yeah. Peggy’s words have been playing on his mind for a little while now. It’s just… Well, he’d feel shitty if he ended up playing a pale imitation of Steve in the story of James Barnes’ love life. Especially seeing as Steve at least had the excuse of being oblivious to it all.

James snorts. “You’re an idiot, Clint,” he says, his voice fond. “Plus, I’m fairly sure we’ve had this conversation before. Has this got something to do with Peggy?”

“Why would you ask that,” Clint replies, instantly suspicious.

“We’re friends, remember? She tells me things.”

“Well, that sounds ominous.”

“Stop being dramatic,” James says with a laugh. “Hey, you know what you should do?”

“What?”

“You should come over here and blow me.”

Clint snorts, like that’s the dumbest thing he’s even heard. “Go all the way to Queens just to end up doing all the work?”

Who’s he kidding, he’s already heading for the subway station. He only starts work at midday tomorrow anyway. This is totally feasible.

James’ laugh is wonderful, even down the phone. “Okay, okay, I’ll blow you. I’ll even make you cinnamon pancakes in the morning. We can send Natasha selfies. Make her jealous.”

“Of the blowjob or the pancakes?”

“Pancakes, obviously. She’s getting laid already.”

Quietly glad at this further proof that James is okay with how he and Natasha operate, Clint pretends to think about. James doesn’t have to know he’s already on the station platform. Seven minutes ‘til the next train? Urgh.

“Deal,” Clint says eventually.

“Awesome.” James sounds endearingly pleased. “And Clint? Quit worrying about me. Nothing’s happening here that I don’t want, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

There’s a brief silence where all Clint can hear is the quiet mumbling of the hobo at the top of the stairs.

“So,” James says eventually, “how cute was the girl Natasha pulled?”

“Oh man, _so_ cute.”

 

“Hey buddy what can I get – oh,” Clint cuts himself off at the sight of Steve Rogers sliding into a barstool at Slings & Arrows. “Hello Steve.”

Steve gives him a tight smile. “Hi.”

He looks stubbornly determined, and for a moment Clint can’t think of anything that might warrant that expression. But then he remembers dinner, and what Peggy said, and has he sudden feeling that Steve’s about to make A Big Thing out of something he really doesn’t need to.

“I want to apologise,” Steve says, after a moment, straightening his shoulders like he’s expecting a fight. And yep, there it is.

“I thought you might,” Clint replies, his hands going through the motions of moving empty glasses into the glasswasher under the bar on automatic. He wipes his hands dry and meets Steve’s gaze. “You don’t have to though.”

Steve looks him in the eye. “I still want to though.”

“Buddy.” Clint leans onto the bar. “Until I bumped into Peggy in Manhattan, I hadn’t even twigged why you’d gone quiet, okay? And your reasoning was totally justified. Don’t apologise for being a good friend.”

“To who? You or Bucky?”

It’s still mildly weird hearing people call James ‘Bucky’. It sounds like a dog’s name, or a beloved childhood toy. Not the name of five-foot-nine-inches of hotass.

Clint rolls his eyes. “I’ve met you twice, including right now. James, obviously.”

“Well, I’d like to be your friend too.” Steve’s jaw is doing interesting things. The superhero clench of righteousness. Man, Steve is attractive. Clint would bang him like a screen door in a hurricane, if he wasn’t straight and married and James’ forever-love BFF. “So I’d like to apologise.”

Clint tries to stare him down but quickly realises that, for all that Clint is a stubborn bastard, Steve is even more so and he has no hope in winning. He breaks eye contact by rolling his eyes instead.

“Well, as long as we’re both aware that this is unnecessary,” he says, conceding to the inevitable.

Steve nods and takes a breath like he’s gearing up for something dramatic.

“I’m sorry for thinking you were the kind of person who’d take advantage of someone’s feelings,” he says, looking Clint dead in the eye in a way that is honestly mildly alarming, “and making assumptions of what kind of person you were based on – on stereotypical ideas of people in open relationships. And for having a less than understanding reaction to…” Steve falters for a moment before continuing, “Your romantic… orientation? And for not trusting you to be exactly who you’d said – and shown – yourself to be, which is a good guy who cares a whole lot for my best friend.”

Steve stares at Clint for a while in silence, like he’s waiting for a response, but Clint honestly can’t form words because his mind had filled with a very strange kind of white noise about half way through Steve’s apology. He’s slightly worried that he’s going to cry at work, to be honest.

No one’s ever – no one’s ever _done that_ before. He’d thought Steve was just going to say something along the lines of ‘sorry for being a dick’ or something and Clint was prepared for that. Clint’s heard those kinds of apologies hundreds of times; he was prepared. But Steve, he actually, Clint can’t –

“Wow,” he says, alarmed at how choked he sounds.

Why is this happening when he’s at work. Why is the world that unfair.

“Shit, did I – ?” Steve looks suddenly stricken.” I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, like, upset you or anything.”

“No, no.” Clint passes a hand over his face. “No you didn’t – sorry. It’s, it’s okay. I just…”

It’s just no one has ever apologised to Clint _like that_. Like they’d sat down and actually considered every single way their actions could have hurt Clint, or dismissed something he was feeling, or belittled something he may have been struggling with. No one has ever apologised to him after so clearly dismissing their own feelings from the equation. If Steve has any issues with anything Clint is then he can’t tell, because Steve has clearly just decided that what he feels in this situation doesn’t matter. All that matters is what he might have done to hurt Clint.

No one has ever done that for Clint before.

People say offhand things all the time that could land punches if Clint let them, even people he loves unreservedly. His mom and Frank do, Barney and Laura do, Kate has, America has. Hell, even Natasha has occasionally. Unsurprisingly, though, his dad did it all the time too which is how and why Clint has defence mechanisms up the wazoo. They’ve been vital for his continued existence since he can remember. In fact, they’re so well developed that Clint forgets that it’s not normal, forgets that it’s not actually difficult to be accepting, and that sometimes he lets people get away with far more than he should.

Steve has known him two weeks and has done a far better job of working out just how easily his actions could have hurt Clint than literally anyone Clint has ever met. The fact that he didn’t actually hurt Clint is, at this moment, very much beside the point.

“Jesus man,” he says eventually, his smile shaky but so, so genuine. “Apology fucking accepted.”

Steve looks unsure, like Clint’s continued unsteadiness is still painted large on his features. “You’re… okay, right? Just, I wasn’t expecting… that.” He waves his hand vaguely.

“Neither was I,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh. Then, because he’s not actually willing to talk about it right now, he asks, “Hey, what’s your poison?” before Steve can return with anything too probing.

“Um,” Steve looks thrown. “Whiskey?”

Clint turns and finds the most expensive whiskey Slings & Arrows keeps, pouring out a healthy double and sliding it across the bar top to Steve. “On the house.”

“It’s four on a Wednesday.”

Clint rolls his eyes, feeling steadier already. “You’re a teacher. It’s summer vacation. Live a little.” He doesn’t have to say this is a thank you, but he’s fairly sure Steve knows because he doesn’t protest further, just wraps his massive hands around the glass. God, his _hands_.

“So…” Clint says, groping for literally any subject that isn’t this one. “Did Peggy put you up to this?”

Steve looks offended. “No! I don’t do _everything_ Peggy says.”

Clint lifts a sceptical eyebrow, fully aware after only meeting her twice that Peggy Carter is not the type of woman to be disobeyed.

“Immediately,” Steve amends, a rueful smile twisting his lips.

Clint snorts out a laugh, nodding distractedly over Steve’s shoulder at a regular and starting to pull two pints of the Dead Pool, a local dark ale made by this crazy guy Wilson over in Gowanus, for him. Personally, Clint thinks the Dead Pool is a revolting lager and if he could stop serving it he would, but he owns a hipster bar in Brooklyn. Serving horrible beer is what he’s supposed to do, though he does at least try and keep the terrible ones to a minimum. Wilson’s Fourth Wall is good at least.

“Hey,” Steve says, when Clint’s almost through pulling the second pint. “I like your mural.”

Clint would bet any money that that wasn’t what Steve was originally going to say, but Clint’s not going to call him on it. Instead he sends a glance over his shoulder to where the words ‘we adhere to a strict NO BULLSHIT policy’ are emblazoned on the wall. “Thanks. Some friend of Kate’s did it for me. It needs repainting, or a redesign or something though. There was an accident.” He points at the massive water stain on the ceiling, where Aimee’s shower died dramatically and flooded basically the entire bar a year or so ago. Kate and America had tried to fix the paintwork up as best as they could, but it looks shabby now.

Steve’s face suddenly lights up. “I could do that. If you wanted.”

“What? Repaint it?”

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, if that’s want you want, but I could redesign it too, if you like.”

Clint stares at him. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. It’s not like I’m doing anything else right now, is it?”

It’s not like Clint is particularly attached to the current mural. A redesign could be awesome, especially by the guy who designed James’ tattoo. He gives the bar a quick glance. There’s not that many people here right now, and numbers probably won’t pick up for another hour or so.

“Yeah okay,” he says, and Steve’s grin gets blinding. “You want to start now?”

“If it’s no bother.” Steve’s trying and failing to downplay his enthusiasm. Clint wonders if Peggy’s working the entire summer, leaving Steve to entertain himself for nearly three straight months. Clint honestly can’t think of anything more boring.

“Nah,” Clint waves a hand dismissively, “I’ll get you supplies. Feel free to do whatever. Though, I can’t pay you.” He shrugs apologetically. “Sorry.”

Steve rolls his eyes so hard Clint’s worried he’s going to sprain something. “Don’t be an idiot. I don’t want you to _pay_ me. I want something to fucking _do_. Pegs is doing research and conferences all summer. I’m bored out of my skull.”

Clint laughs. That answers that question, then.

“If you’re sure,” he says, and he heads into the back to find paper and a tape measure.

 

They’re halfway through a dinner party Natasha is hosting for the five of them at her place when she turns to Steve and asks, “So what have you been doing while Peggy’s been jet setting for conferences?”

“Well, actually,” Steve looks excited and nervous. “I’ve – d’you wanna see? I brought some – here.” He gets up to dig something out of his back pocket, unfolding them and passing them to Clint. “Just, let me know which you like best, or if you want anything changing.”

They’re designs for the mural – three of them – and Clint is honestly surprised. He hadn’t _really_ expected anything to come from their conversation, in part because it’s a big project which Clint can’t pay Steve for.

Clint cycles through them, taking each one in. One looks like a Victorian advert crossed with old 1920s circus posters, one’s a slick graphic in the vein of hipster advertising, and the last looks like the most insane calligraphy, complex but easily legible. They’re so different that the fact that they’re designed by the same guy seems ridiculous to Clint. The fact that they’re designed by _Steve_ seems even more improbable considering that Clint’s only other exposure to his art has been James’ tattoo – all M.C. Escher inspired geometric patterns – and a portrait he saw in Steve and Peggy’s front room, full of short brushstrokes and strong colours.

Steve’s range, to Clint’s untrained eyes, is _insane_.

“What are they?” Natasha asks, trying not-so-subtly to peer over Clint’s shoulder at the designs.

“Shit, Steve,” Clint says instead of replying, still gazing between the designs. “These are amazing.”

And they were just folded into his back pocket, like they were nothing that important or interesting.

“They’re okay,” Steve demurs.

Clint looks up at that and Natasha takes the opportunity to snatch the paper out of his lax grip. He’d be annoyed but he’s expending too much energy trying to wrap his head around a world where these designs are simply ‘okay’. Steve looks _bashful_.

“Oh my god.” Natasha immediately shoves the designs under James’ nose, presumably so he can admire them too, though how he’s supposed to see them properly when they’re barely an inch from his nose is anyone’s guess. “Does this mean you’re finally getting the mural redone?”

It sounds like a rhetorical question, so Clint doesn’t answer. Natasha kicks him.

“Jesus, Tash,” Clint rubs his ankle and glares at her. “ _Yes_ , Steve offered, last week.”

“What mural?” Peggy asks.

“Behind the bar,” James answers, his voice vague. He’s studying the designs now, having moved them far enough away from his face to be able to see them properly. “It’s massive.”

Peggy looks none the wiser so Steve elaborates for her. “Clint’s bar. There’s a mural behind it. ‘We adhere to a strict NO BULLSHIT policy’.”

“Gives him licence to throw out people for being assholes,” Natasha adds.

“Does that happen often?”

Clint shrugs. “Less now we have Thor and Damen.”

“Bouncers?” Peggy asks.

“Also massive,” James cuts in with a nod and, well, he’s not wrong. Hilariously though, both are absolute puppies unless really riled. Clint loves them. They’re amazing. “You should use this one,” James continues, reaching over the table to shove the elaborate calligraphy design under Clint’s nose, as if his decision is final. “It’ll look the least hipster.”

Steve splutters out a protest while Peggy reaches for the designs, the last person to see them.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with the other ones, Steve,” James continues, “but the décor being what it is in there, that Victorian one will look kinda pretentious and the other one will look hilariously out of place.”

To be honest, Clint is kind of pissed that James is right.

“Oh wow,” Peggy cuts in, unknowingly heading off Clint’s annoyance at the pass. “You really have been bored, haven’t you darling?” She sends a smile Clint’s way, as if she’s letting him in on a grand secret. “Steve has almost no patience for calligraphy. Of any type, really.”

“The whole _point_ of _art_ ,” James says dramatically, clenching his fist and staring dramatically into the middle distance like a character from a terrible action movie about to make a rousing speech, “is that it doesn’t use _words_. It’s the _universal communicator_.”

“Fuck off, Buck,” Steve says, resigned but smiling, as Peggy and Natasha laugh. Clint looks down at the designs again, feeling suddenly wrong-footed but also sort of… pleased. He’s not sure why, but the idea that Steve had offered to take on a project for him that was entirely based on calligraphy even though he doesn’t really like it makes Clint feel sort of… honoured. Or something. Even more so because he’s come up with these designs in the past ten days.

Steve’s apology might have had more of an effect on Clint than he was expecting.

“So you like them?” Steve asks after a moment, and Clint looks up to find everyone looking at him.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Clint smiles, feeling kind of flustered under everyone’s gaze. “And James is probably right.” He runs his finger along the edge of the paper before slipping out the design in question from its peers. “This will probably work the best.”

“I’m not in product design for nothing,” James says.

Steve snorts and rolls his eyes. This is clearly a familiar source of bickering between the two of them and Clint feels like a character watching a tennis match in a cartoon, his gaze bounding between the two of them as they bicker. It’s fascinating. “You’re _barely_ in product design – ”

“How very dare you,” James cuts in, clutching at his chest as if mortally wounded.

“ – it’s R&D. You work with circuit boards.”

“Oh _I’m_ sorry, Mr Artsy, we can’t _all_ be the next Jackson Pollock.”

Steve smacks him on the arm. “Jerk.”

“Steve hates Jackson Pollock.” James says in a loud aside. The overdramatic tone comes back. “There’s _no form_.”

“Well, there isn’t!”

“Oh, but the _movement_ , Steve,” Natasha cuts in and, though she sounds sarcastic, Clint knows that she’s not. Natasha actually loves Jackson Pollock, especially his later work. Not that Clint could pick it out of a line-up. He’s the guy who looks like he accidentally knocked over his paints, right? “ _Summertime_ especially.”

Steve opens his mouth, clearly with the intent of arguing back, but Peggy cuts in almost immediately. “No, we’re not arguing about Jackson Pollock again. What colours were you thinking of?”

And with one question, Steve is effectively derailed from his impending Jackson Pollock tirade. He says something about ‘muted newspaper colours’ and something about ‘fitting tonally’ and something about ‘not dominating the eye’ and Clint just nods like he isn’t just going to let Steve have free rein over this too.

As Steve speaks Natasha clears the table, bringing desert and coffee and her good schnapps, waving away Peggy’s offer of help but coercing James into stacking the plates. She’s made tiramisu and Clint’s been looking forward to it all week. Natasha's tiramisu is the stuff of legend.

“And I think it’ll probably take me about a week to finish up? I got some board from a lumberyard that will work well. It’s got a nice chipboard texture that’ll look good as a base. I’ll just come ‘round tomorrow with some colourways and to get the final measurements for the space. That okay?”

Clint nods a little late, distracted by his tiramisu. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

“What’s your next project after the mural’s done?” Natasha asks as she tucks into her own dessert.

“Urgh, I have no idea.” Steve waves his fork in clear frustration. “I’ve got a portrait that I want to finish, but it’s fighting me. Plus, I can do that anytime. I kinda want to use this vacation to teach myself something new, you know?”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Lino cuts? This tiramisu is amazing by the way. Clay? Needlepoi – ”

“Oh my god,” James’ voice is muffled by a mouth full of tiramisu which he struggles to swallow before repeating himself. “ _Oh my God_ , Stevie. _Stevie._ Prosthetic makeup.”

“What?”

“ _Prosthetic makeup_.”

“Why would I want to learn that?” Steve asks, clearly baffled. Clint squints at James too, because seriously, what the hell?

James leans forward, his hands splayed on the table either side of his plate. “ _Halloween,_ ” he says, almost reverently.

Peggy groans, but Steve’s face fucking _lights up_.

“Am I missing something?” Clint asks, looking to Natasha for help only to find her equally confused. “I feel like I’m missing something.”

“Halloween,” Peggy supplies, as Steve breathes out an excited ‘Fuck yes!’, “is an unimaginably big deal for these two children. I always hope they’ll give it a rest, but they never do.”

Turns out, Steve and James have been celebrating Halloween together since they were kids. And not just in the oh-hey-lets-do-some-trick-or-treating-oh-we’re-grown-now-let’s-get-drunk way. No, they make costumes and proper go for it, regardless of the day of the week. And since Steve and Peggy got married Peggy has been roped in, faux-complaining all the way.

“Last year we just went as Greeks, but the year before we went as Woody, Buzz, and Jessie from Toy Story.”

“Bucky was Buzz, which he was pissed about,” Steve says through a grin.

“Because Steve clearly has the right proportions for Buzz!”

“So what you’re saying,” Clint asks, deciding he can safely ignore this tangent regardless of the fact that James is clearly right, “is that we all do Halloween?”

Clint’s actually super on board with that idea. He can probably wing a day off for Halloween and it’s been ages since he’s done any kind of serious dressing up. Probably not since his time at Carson’s, actually.

“Well, d’you wanna?” James asks, looking between him and Natasha. “Only if you wanna.”

“I didn’t get that choice,” Peggy grumbles good-naturedly.

“Sure you did,” James waves a hand. “Your wedding vows, remember?”

“Darling,” Peggy says to Steve, not missing a beat. “Please dead-arm James for me.”

Steve smirks and dead-arms James, causing him to drop his fork. In return, James shoots the stink-eye at Peggy, who grins back, unrepentant. And Clint can’t help it. He laughs. These three, when they’re comfortable, are fucking comedy gold.

“Well, I’m up for that,” Natasha says, smiling over the rim of her schnapps. “Where do you normally go?”

Steve shrugs. “Wherever, really. Why, you got any good ideas?”

Natasha turns to Clint, her eyebrow raised, and Clint immediately knows what she’s thinking. Valhalla has a Halloween night, fancy dress encouraged, on the 31st every year, regardless of what day the 31st actually is. Clint’s been twice since he moved to New York – both times with Kate, both times when the 31st fell on a weekend – and they’re fucking spectacular. It’s not a fetish club, so it’s safe enough for people just walking in off the street, but the dungeon below it means that the costumes are always just a little bit _more_ than what you’d find anywhere else. Plus the queens are out in force, which Clint always appreciates.

“Valhalla,” Clint supplies, “in Manhattan. They’ll always appreciate a good costume and they agree with your view that Halloween should only be celebrated on the 31st.”

There’s a brief silence as everyone mulls this over.

“It’s a gay bar, right?” James asks.

“Basically,” Natasha replies with a nonchalant shrug that belays how into the idea Clint can tell she is.

James and Steve share a significant look.

“So what I’m hearing,” James continues, “is that we’re going to a gay bar for Halloween.”

“Yes…?” Clint wasn’t aware that it was a done deal, but nevertheless.

“We’re gonna have to up our game.” Steve sounds honestly gleeful, and James grins in return.

“You’re gonna learn to do prosthetic makeup.”

“I,” Steve says dramatically, “am going to learn to do prosthetic makeup.”

“ _After_ you’ve painted Clint’s sign,” Peggy cuts in.

“After I’ve painted Clint’s sign.”

There’s a beat of silence and then Natasha get out her shot glasses and pours each of them a shot of peach schnapps.

“Drink on it?” She says, passing out the glasses. It seems like an innocent gesture, a sealing of the deal, but Clint knows better. If they drink to this idea Natasha will hold everyone to it come hell or high water. She must _really_ want to do Halloween at Valhalla this year.

Clint suddenly remembers all the fetish wear she has that she rarely uses now thanks to him and he grins at her. He might not be into that sort of scene, but he can always appreciate a person in fetish wear.

Natasha grins back, filthy and full of promise. Oh, this is a _good_ idea.

“To Halloween,” he says, raising his glass.

“To Halloween!” echo Steve and James, almost loud enough to drown out Peggy’s good natured, “Oh fuck, I regret this already.”

Oh yeah, this is a _good idea_.


End file.
